


but back home they still believe in miracles

by cerebella



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebella/pseuds/cerebella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has no doubt that the few moments of hazy, cosmic latte unconsciousness before respawn are completely separate from death, and yet he still feels underwhelmed. It's all going to fade to black or beige, and before he knows it he'll be three feet under the ground because Miss Pauling digs those graves so shallow. The woman has a hacksaw, and she's quite inclined to use it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but back home they still believe in miracles

**Author's Note:**

> set during expiration date, with some alterations to fit the fiction
> 
> this isn't really a plot-centric fic and for that i apologize because i strongly believe plot makes the prose. i just needed to get something down of quality. i promise i'll turn out something interesting soon !!

Dell Conagher spends the evening watching the end of the world for what feels like the millionth time. He's been stabbed in the back, shot in the head, ran through with a bone saw, and beaten to death plenty of times with a rusty baseball bat, courtesy of the gentlemen in powder blue who live across the road, and it hadn't even phased him.

He has no doubt that the few moments of hazy, cosmic latte unconsciousness before respawn are no real death, and yet he still feels underwhelmed. It's all going to fade to black or beige, and before he knows it he'll be three feet under the ground because Miss Pauling digs those graves so shallow. The woman has a hacksaw, and she's quite inclined to use it. Lord above knows she wouldn't be so blasé as to send his cold, dead body home in twelve pieces. Dell's not worth that kind of paperwork. (Almost nothing is.)

And hunched over an aging, funky little machine during these last few hours, dammit, he's a sensible fellow, but he doesn't know what he's doing. The results come out the same and the same and the same, figures cropping up on his receipts, working out the probability of death to the sixty-fifth significant figure.

The machine clicks and whirrs and hums: there it is again.

It wouldn't be fair to the folks around him to just give up now. His momma said from day one he'd always be ready to die, even if it didn't feel like it. He doesn't know if the same goes for them.

So he puts on a record. It's a scratched up, dusty old thing on his jukebox, but it reminds him of home, and it reminds him of the letters he needs to write. (They'll never get posted, but that hardly makes a difference. It's something for the world to keep.) A soft voice starts to croon out, accompanied by a piano and an out-of-tune guitar, and he cracks his knuckles. (An old habit, from when he spent too much time elbow-deep in his momma's junker's bonnet during the summer with sweat running down his back.)

For the end of the world, it sure is a lovely evening.

He can see all the stars in the sky through the attic window, the sky swollen and purpling, something like an old bruise, and he bets it tastes like lemonade too. Hell, back home maybe his babies are sucking on lemons like they always loved so much. Maybe his Bonnie's baking their favorite strawberry pie, and God, isn't she getting old these days? And here he is, sweating behind his goggles in a messy workshop, surrounded by wicked machines and rusty memorabilia, when he should be by her side with his children, fixing leaky sinks and bringing up new hand-weaved carpets into their treehouse when the old one gets doused in tears and sweat and apple juice.

There's pictures of them–-seven, actually-–by his bed. It's not like he needs them, but they're something to talk about when someone comes in, because it's easy to talk about them. It's easy to talk about his four little girls, about the oldest and her next-door boyfriend, and his youngest's knack for setting things on fire. (Sniper chuckles at that every time, and Dell always thinks she'd really like Pyro. And Pyro would like her. Jenny Conagher goes to bed with flowers in her hair and matches in her pockets, and she may not like candy but she sure likes sitting by the hearth with her cotton bunny.)

They're not everything, not quite, because nobody ever should be, but they're a hell of a lot when he gets his brains blown out a dozen times a day. On his weeks off in the Spring, they have grass in their hair and they smell like hopscotch and cinnamon toast. And in the winter they write him hundreds of letters, some from everyone, some from one or two of the girls, some from Bonnie, and a couple "from" Beaver, their fat, old retriever. (A sweet pup, a big, ol' hunk of fat and whatever blanket one of the girls has thrown over him, proclaiming him the next president.)

And they're damn fine a family, there's nothing to add to that, only more love and more road trips, but Dell Conagher is a piece of work himself. From his momma to his favorite toaster, it's taken something out of him to work on everything around him to make it better, for God's sake. He'll have a little pride even if it does kill him like they say it will.

Well, there's no point in delaying. He stands up and through the window gives the universe one last good look before turning. His old bones wouldn't stand much more ruckus anyway: the deserts and the floods get to you. It's strange to have eight broken-blood brothers who feel the same way.

If he's as good as he knows he is, God will tell him. He isn't the judge of that, and he doesn't need to be. He just needs to go to bed knowing the world is better than it was yesterday. There'll still be good people when he's gone: Jimmy back home who runs the bar knows his girls. When she gets the letter in the mail, there's no way in hell Jimmy won't be there to help. He's a good man.

Maybe he'll be there for Jenny's school plays and Bonnie's strawberry pie entry at the local spring festival and he'll be the one to take Beaver for those long, easy walks the big-bellied retriever loves so much. Or maybe Bonnie will do it all by herself, take the kids to beaches and bed and breakfasts, turning down their records and turning up with baskets full of flowers before their annual dances.

Speaking of good men, there's a doctor in his doorway.

"Herr Conagher?" The man grins. "I have good news."


End file.
